Kill Plan (Ingrid Skyberg FBI Thrillers -) (15 page)

“I said there was no link to Wall Street. If you’d read her file on the database a little more carefully, you would have discovered she worked as an Assistant US Attorney.”

“I thought she was at the District Attorney’s office.”

“She was. Then she moved on to the US Attorney’s office in Washington state.

Dammit
. Ingrid had conflated the ex-congresswoman’s sojourn at the district attorney’s with the time she’d devoted to the US Attorney’s Office. How had she missed that? “So she was dealing with federal cases?”

“For seven years in total. Started out in Spokane then transferred to Seattle two years later. Could be she dealt with plenty of finance-related cases. But it would have been small beer. Nothing newsworthy.”

“Equally it could be just what I’m looking for. Can you get me a list of all her cases during her time at the US Attorney’s Office?”

“Oh come on, Skyberg. I got my own work to do, you know.”

“I promise this is the last request I’ll make.”

“Oh sure.”

“Is that a yes?”

The line went very quiet.

“OK.”

“Great—call me when you have the list.” She hung up before Stiller had a chance to say goodbye, or complain, and started wandering back toward Tate, trying to work out how the hell she was going to get rid of her.

Tate ground the stub of her second cigarette under a boot. “What was that all about?”

“I can’t say.”

“Off the record.”

Ingrid raised her eyebrows.

“Truly. Cross my heart.”

Ingrid doubted Tate had one. “I can’t go into the details. I was just checking some information with a colleague of mine back at Bureau HQ.”

“Something to do with the Fisher Krupps trader?”

“Not at all,” she lied.

“So—what was it then?”

“Another case—I told you, I can’t give you the details.” Her phone, still in her hand, started to buzz again.

“You are popular.” Tate eyed the phone.

“Maybe we should forget all about this.”

“I’ve cleared my diary for the day. I’m an optimist. I’m sure I’ll pick up something of interest during our time together. But right now I could murder a bacon sandwich.”

Ingrid turned away again and glanced at the screen. It was a call she couldn’t ignore.

24

“Detective Fraser, thank you so much for getting back to me.” Ingrid tried to keep her voice controlled and even, but she was inwardly cursing him for previously ignoring her calls. “What can you tell me?”

“Nothing. There have been no new developments.”

“You haven’t even identified the victim?” Ingrid walked down the street, further away from Tate.

“It’s proving more difficult than we thought.”

“Still nothing back from Latvian police about the tattoo?”

“You’re assuming she had a record.”

“What about the media over there—have the police been liaising with the newspapers and TV?”

“I haven’t seen any evidence of it. She’s not a priority for them. We don’t even know for sure that she was Latvian.”

I know
. “Extend your inquiries to include Lithuania and Estonia then.”

“I’ll have a word with the SIO.” From the noncommittal tone of Fraser’s voice, Ingrid doubted he’d do anything of the sort.

“Maybe I should speak to him.” She’d actually already tried that approach. The senior officer running the case was ignoring her calls too. It was possible Fraser knew that. “Are you in the incident room? Is the SIO there with you now?”

“He… er…”

Ingrid could hear mumbling in the background.

“He’s just had to step out. Important meeting.”

“I don’t understand, if you have nothing new to tell me, why are you even calling?”

“To be honest… to stop you calling me. You have to believe I’ll get in touch if something of interest comes up.”

“How about the house-to-house inquiries? Do any of the neighbors remember seeing a man at the address?”

“Nope.”

“And none of them recognize the man in the photograph I sent you?”

Fraser drew in a noisy breath.

“What is it?”

“When no one confirmed a sighting of a man, we wound down the house-to-house interviews. We’re concentrating our efforts elsewhere.”

“Are you saying that the woman’s neighbors haven’t even
seen
the photograph?”

Another rasping inhale.

Goddammit
.

“Why aren’t you treating her murder as a priority? Is it because she’s an immigrant?”

“Of course not! We take all homicides very seriously. It’s not like America. We don’t have this sort of thing happening every day of the week. Thank God.”

“Where are you concentrating your efforts?”

“The boss is due to fly out to Latvia on Sunday morning. He’s liaising with the police force in Riga.”

“That’s it?” It sounded like an excuse for a weekend away to Ingrid.

“We’re still looking at the CCTV footage from the area around her flat. Nothing of interest has come up so far.” He let out a long sigh. “Look, we’re all as frustrated as you are with the lack of progress on this case. But it doesn’t mean we’ve given up on finding out who killed her.

Ingrid hoped he meant what he said. She hung up and opened the search app on her cell. Tate was striding toward her.

“And what was that call about?”

“Another ongoing case.”

“That you can’t share.”

Ingrid looked up from her phone. “Actually, I can. But I need some help first.”

“From me?” Tate threw what was left of her third cigarette into the gutter. Ingrid nodded back at her. “Fire away!” The reporter rubbed her hands together.

“Do you have a chain of copy shops here in the UK? I need to find one—fast.”

Forty minutes later, Ingrid and Tate were walking out of a Kall Kwik copy shop on Wembley High Road, laden down with a box each of 250 color copies of Darryl Wyatt’s photograph.

“Where to now?” Tate said as they shoved the boxes onto the front seat of the car.

Ingrid leaned in and punched an address into the sat nav. The driver shifted uncomfortably in his seat a little but offered no word of protest.

“Actually—before we go anywhere,” Tate said, “I need to find some lunch.” She slammed shut the door and grabbed Ingrid’s arm around the elbow. “My God you need feeding up. Let’s get you something substantial to eat, shall we?”

Lunch took a lot longer than Ingrid would have liked, and mostly consisted of her deflecting Tate’s intrusive questions about her life in London and her work in the FBI. By the time they were back in the car and turning off Lordship Lane, the traffic was starting to get heavy—mainly moms picking up their kids from kindergarten and the first signs of the evening rush hour—it was Friday afternoon after all—and the embassy driver seemed a little irritated.

“You know, you still haven’t told me where we’re going,” Tate said as she wriggled to get comfortable in the plushly upholstered rear seat of the sedan. “Though I’ve got to admit, I could get used to having my own personal driver. What a treat!”

The car pulled into the curb a few minutes later and Tate peered out the window. “What are we doing in Dulwich?”

“Something I guess you’ve done plenty of over the years.”

Tate arched a single eyebrow.

“A little doorstepping.”

“Really? Let me at ’em. I thought I might die of boredom.”

Ingrid reached into the front seat, pulled a sheaf of color copies from one of the boxes and handed them to Tate, who was practically limbering up on the sidewalk like a marathon runner, she was so keen to start. She looked at the photograph of Darryl Wyatt. “I’m already sick of this bloke’s face. What’s the score—asking people if they recognize him, if so when did they last see him, etcetera etcetera… Does he have a name?”

“I doubt he’d be using the one I have on record for him.”

“So, if they happen to put a name to the face, I get bonus points.”

“You only get those if they give you an address for him.”

“I’m glad you’re not my boss.”

Ingrid pointed to the Latvian’s building. A little blue and white police tape had gotten caught in the branches of a nearby tree and was fluttering in the breeze. “We’ll start there. With the other apartments in the building, then work outwards.”

Tate was already halfway up the path leading to the front door before Ingrid finished speaking. She rang all five buzzers, leaning her hand against them until she got a response. An intercom crackled and a distant voice hollered at her. Ingrid decided to give the reporter some space and tried the neighboring property. She knocked on the door and a dog started barking almost immediately. A deep, menacing bark. She heard an internal door open and close. The barking got louder for a moment then faded. A few seconds later the front door opened a few inches.

“Where’s the bloody fire?” The woman holding onto the door was dressed in training pants and a sweatshirt, she had bright white sneakers on her feet.

Ingrid flashed her badge at her and held up one of the copied sheets.

“Not more bloody coppers. I’ve already told you, I don’t know anything and I haven’t seen anything. I mind my own business.” She started to close the door.

“Please ma’am, just a take a quick look.”

“You’re a Yank.”

“FBI, from the American embassy, ma’am.”

“So who’s this then?” She pointed to the sheet. “One of your Most Wanted?” She let out a little snort of laughter.

“He is, as a matter of fact. The sooner we track him down the safer we’ll all sleep in our beds.” Ingrid had grown sick of the subtle, softly, softly approach. She decided to try scaring the crap out of this woman. See if that made her pay attention. So far it seemed it might just be working.

“What’s he supposed to have done?” The woman jabbed a finger at the photograph.

“Murder.”

“Of her next door?”

“You know the deceased?”

“No—but I’ve seen her around. Said hello a couple of times.” She scrutinized Ingrid’s face. “Why’s the American embassy getting involved? She wasn’t American. Not with that accent.”

“This man is the prime suspect in a murder investigation in Georgia.”

“And you think he’s come all the way over here?”

“It’s one line of inquiry we’re pursuing.”

“God you sound just like the policewoman I spoke to yesterday. Do you all get the same training?”

“Please, ma’am, take a good look at his face. It’s possible he’s clean shaven now, maybe his hair’s a different color. He could be wearing glasses.”

The woman stared a little longer at the color copy, then started shaking her head. “I’ve not seen him.”

“Is there anyone else in the house who might have?”

“My husband. But he doesn’t pay attention to anything outside work and football. I’m lucky if he even notices me.”

“Please keep the photo and ask him, would you?” Ingrid handed her a card too. “Call me anytime if you think of something.”

The woman closed the door just as Tate approached from the next door property.

“Any luck?” Ingrid asked her.

“The only person to answer their buzzer was half deaf. I popped a few photocopies through the main letter box anyway. I scribbled my phone number and ‘have you seen this man’ on the back of each one.”

“Don’t you think asking them to contact the embassy would have been more appropriate?”

Tate shrugged. “Didn’t occur to me.” She reached into her purse and pulled out her pack of cigarettes. “I heard most of what you told that woman.”

“So?”

“Who did this one kill in Georgia? I’m guessing it’s got to be quite a high profile case for the FBI to get involved.”

“We take every homicide just as seriously as any other. High profile doesn’t come into it.”

“Sure, sure. So who was it?”

“Just some woman in a restaurant.” She’d already revealed too much.

“Another stabbing?”

Ingrid wondered if she should lie. It wouldn’t help her investigation to have Tate sniffing around the ex-congresswoman’s death. She decided to be as vague as possible. “That’s right. I haven’t received the case file yet—I don’t know all the details.”

“Maybe when you do, we can have a follow-up interview?”

“Sure, why not?” As if that would ever happen.

Tate looked down at the cigarettes and shoved them back in her purse. Then she quickly moved on to the next house. “We’d better get stuck in, or we’ll be here all night.”

Ninety minutes, and at least three dozen properties later, Ingrid met Tate back at the car. “Anything to report?” Ingrid asked her.

“Most people were either out or chose not to answer. I shoved the picture through their letterboxes anyway. You never know, someone might get in touch. What about you?”

“Same story. It was worth a try.”

“Yes—and it kept me out of your hair for a while. But I’m not that easily deterred. We’ve done everything we can here. You can tell me all about the dead trader while we drive to Fisher Krupps.”

Ingrid pursed her lips and shook her head. She pointed at her watch. “Five-thirty. End of my working day. You’ve had all the access you’re going to get.”

25

Ingrid had only managed to get rid of Angela Tate after promising to update her with any progress on the City trader case, just as soon as it happened.

“Be warned—I will hold you to that. If I don’t hear from you, I shall make your life absolute hell,” she’d said.

Ingrid didn’t doubt that for a second. She knew well enough not to cross Tate. If she were being entirely honest with herself, she would have to admit she was a little in awe of the journalist’s single-mindedness. And maybe even a little intimidated.

When she returned to the embassy, after dropping Tate at the
Evening News
building on Blackfriars Road, Ingrid decided to check in with DI Mbeke.

“Have I caught you still on duty?” Ingrid asked him after she’d almost hung up—the call rang out for what seemed like ages.

“Actually I was just heading out of the building.” He sounded slightly out of breath.

“Any news?”

“I was going to leave it until Monday.”

Ingrid sat up in her chair.

“It’s not earth shattering. We still haven’t located Hernandez. But we have confirmed that aconite was used to kill Fuller. The lab found traces of it in his liver and kidneys.”